


your tender love has its violent tendencies

by jetblacklilac



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, I love them ok, Sort Of, but the THOUGHT of it is there, it isnt technically angst bc of the lovey dovey theme, nothing actually happens, s8 fucking sucks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-22
Updated: 2020-02-22
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:08:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22844572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jetblacklilac/pseuds/jetblacklilac
Summary: The fight between life and death, the future and present, of wolves and dragons against the undead, and Sansa asks Jon of the impossible. To protect her from the terrors of life permanently.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 2
Kudos: 35





	your tender love has its violent tendencies

**Author's Note:**

> this took me like thirty minutes, a horrid rushed fic but what do u think?
> 
> imagine me not writing about jonsa. no seriously just imagine bc its not happening. i love them

This is a battle of life and death; the tug of war of the future and present. The Night King with his cold and bony fingers grasps the reigns of life, tainted it in his desire to rule the living; a line never been crossed in history’s timeline. Or rather, a catastrophic occurrence no maester would believe because it _sounds_ ridiculous to anyone’s ears.

Fight the dead? How can one do that? No weapon could slice through a stopped heart and hope they can grasp victory.

But Jon supposes their lives are cruel jokes the gods enjoy crafting. Perhaps the chill winds of the North are their cackling laughter from above because they will always look down on mere humans like himself? The breeze often sinks into their skin and bones, to remind them of the gods’ power, unforgiving and wild as the land they continue to live and fight for.

Even if the gods did exist, why would they allow a perverse creature like the Night King invade the living this way?

Jon doesn’t know. He only knows how to swing Longclaw against the sea of blue bodied enemies, to take a step back, turn, and cut down anyone that has destroyed his home, the broken castle that doesn’t seem so debilitated in his eyes.

If he lives, he will spend the rest of his life restoring it to its former glory;the way Sansa wants to and he’ll obey his Queen in any circumstances. 

He has trained his entire life to fight; as a bastard, he is on equal footing with his lordling brother and the japing kraken. In the Night’s Watch, Jon bested the most skilled and once or twice, he smiled because of it, the pride in his own doing of earning the title of being the best swordsman in all of the seven kingdoms.

He finds himself in the crypts; stone statues of his ancestors stood in stone walls, swords in their hands, and he cannot help but tighten his hold on his sword; the only thing that can guarantee him a second longer to live.

It’s not the gods that decide who dies or lives. It’s the weapons they wield against death’s overwhelming power over their hearts and souls. How sharp is one’s sword to slice through the darkness? How quick are they to avoid the abyss he once fell in? Their legs and arms will ache and eventually, they will give in.

He can’t fear the inevitable, only defiantly prevent it in every second he breathes. 

One day, Jon wil; die again but not today, not when he’s fighting for a future; a silver in Winterfell’s perpetual grey skies and white ice. It’s ridiculous really that he’s still a stupid optimist.

A wolf bares his teeth and claws dig deep in the ground he must do the same. He is a Stark, no matter the revelation that he is only half. Wolves raised him, not scaled lizards that his aunt dotes too much on.

The breaths in his lungs are cold, mist clouds form his dry lips, and he stumbles in the dark. Torches are not lit as to not lead more of the undead in the battlefield. Knees slamming hard on the frozen ground, looking up, he’s horrified to be kneeling in front of Lyanna Stark. His mother, the person Father-Uncle Ned refused to discuss, kept it to him until he was brutally executed.

_Which is better a wrong story told or the truth kept in the dark in the name of false security and love?_

Jon isn’t sure if this is a precise depiction of his mother; he has no memory of this stone carved woman, how she really smiles, what she looks like when she was wolf wild and the gods decided to strike her down.

He’s covered in blood, the smell of decay rolls off him in waves but perhaps it’s been that way since he was unnaturally resurrected. He slams his fist down as sobs fill the walls of his throat. He cannot afford to be emotional when the war rages, _fire_ destroys his home, and the enemy hasn’t been dealt with.

“You shouldn’t have loved a dragon, Mother.” Jon spat out at his mother’s feet, like she could hear him through a mere sculpture of her. Would she cry like him or slap him? She’s dead, like he once was. Maybe if he stayed dead, he would’ve told her this. “They burn and you’ll get caught up with it. Why did the gods let _me_ live? Why do they want to fucking torment me like this?”

He pauses at hearing frantic footsteps; breaths are frantic cries and whimpers. Standing up, he raises Longclaw in front of him but he staggers forward, the hairs at the back of his neck stands up as he sees unbound auburn locks whipping about.

Sansa is running away from something. She clutches a torch and her boots slap against the floor and the swift taps tells him of the speed she’s running in. 

It’s a terrifying version of their reunion back at Castle Black. He dashes to her and his heart aches, out of relief and concern, when Sansa’s sky eyes shine at seeing him.

“Jon, oh gods, Jon!” Sansa sobs and she crashes to his chest, cold hands grasp his neck, arms and pull him closer. “The bodies in the crypts, they’re alive. I don’t know if the others….”

Her badly trembling knees buckled under her weight and they fell to the floor. Her hand dropped something; it’s a dragonglass dagger, fitting on her dainty hand and slick with icy blood. “The Kings of Winter will come for us, Jon. They hate how we left their domain for our dreams, for wanting to leave home. Why did we even leave Winterfell? They will kill us for disrespecting their legacy, they-“

He ends her ramble as he shushes her, cradles her like Gilly would with her babe. “No one will harm you again, I promised you, over and over again Sansa.” He professes, heatedly, his breath caressing her face the way men in her past never deigned to do; to comfort her and witness the rosy red love bloom like he does, and only him.

Her lower lip trembles, her face, a highborn’s face, a face that’s meant to be a wife to a king, a queen since she was born, is streaked with dirt and dried blood. Oh the gods will pay for this, Jon swears, as he rubs his gloved hands on her clothed shoulders.

She picks up the dagger and places it on his hand.

His eyes widened. “No, Sansa.” He bites out, vicious and hurt that Sansa would want _him_ to do _that_ to her. “I will not, I cannot-“

“-You are the only man I will ever trust; there is no one else in the entire world that has earned my love and trust like you did and you weren’t actively seeking it.” Sansa interrupts the logical counterargument. Her shaky hands positioned his equally unsteady hands to her chest. “I want to die looking at you; the man I have loved. You love me enough to not let me suffer anymore, don’t you?”

Cool tears dotted his scarred face and shine his bushy beard. He can’t kill the woman he loves, the once sister now-of course the gods won’t allow them to be together the way he pretends he doesn’t dream of since Bran told them of the truth.

Jon leans his forehead against hers, their breaths the same chilled air, their soft crying lilts in similar crestfallen tone; the stone statues remain unmoving, uncaring audiences to the Winter Royalty, reduced to crying and scared out of their minds.

“You cannot ask me of this, please Sansa. We can still fight for another day.” Jon utters lowly so the gods won’t hear his wish because he is _so_ certain they will create another obstruction to his waning dream. He glances at her and she’s already staring at him, adoration and sadness she wears too well. “I love you.”

She closes her eyes and more tears rolled down her cheeks, once received unwanted kisses from slimy men now caked with dirt. “I want that to be the last thing I will hear. Jon, _please_ , I cannot live in fear anymore. It has been my only companion in the Red Keep, when I was wed, when-“

Another set of footsteps echoed behind Jon and Sansa whimpers, inching closer but he moves the dagger away from her stomach.

“We don’t have time. Kill me now.” Sansa beseeches. 

It _hurt_ to be reminded that perhaps this is how she pleaded when she was a mere child in King’s Landing. When lions took great delight in abusing a wolf pup because she is separated from her pack. Her dress is torn, her hair is knotted and messy, but the look of absolute trust and devotion is perhaps the most painful and sweetest thing he has ever witnessed. 

_You may love each other but at the price of your beating hearts._ The Old Gods might as well have said. 

Jon’s body sags and he cries on her shoulder. “I love you sweet girl, just- just please only think of that. Don’t think of the pain. Think of my love for you and it will warm your soul. I’ll protect you.”

If Catelyn Stark lived, she would’ve killed him for this. He knows it. 

Yells bounced along the walls.

His heart bleeds red as the weirwood tree. Who ever thought they could escape death and defy the gods? Dragons fall out of the sky. Wolves are hunted down. 

Sansa’s mouth hovered on his mouth. “In our next life, we’ll be together, we’ll marry and we will be _so much happier_ than now, so let us haste into that future my love.” She softly urges, voice laced with sullen grey realism; the way they never had to be before they left before they dared to be anything but of the North.

The dagger is placed back at her chest. Sansa steadily stares at him, a sad but loving smile. She’s white as the ice of their domain but her bones and skin are steel. Her hand digs into the leather of his jerkin when he moves the weapon deeper.

“Jon? Sansa? Oh thank the fucking gods!”

It was Arya.

Jon stumbles to turn and sees his little sister running towards them. Her attire similar to his, is covered in ash, blood, and her hair is a frightful mess. But she stood with pride, grins in a wolfish manner. “I killed the Night King. I saved us all.”

He tosses the dagger away from them, horrified at his intention.

Sansa cries out loud and hugs Jon frantically, nails scraping against the skin of his neck it hurts but at least he still _feels._ “Oh thank the gods.” She breathes into his ear.

 _Thank the gods?_ Jon seethes in his thoughts as he rubs Sansa's back and grins at Arya; all of them weary of life and their hands are calloused. _What have they done for us? Thank your sister, my love. Thank everyone but the unseen and unnamed gods._

Arya bends down to them her dark eyes, much like his, are shining with tears. “I did it for us, for my family. I defeated death for us.”

Jon hugs his sister and his wife to be and the girls wept.

_The gods will have to wait for me a little while longer because these girls anchor me on the ground. And I will stay with them._

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> (i tried to write something weird and sad and maybe i kind of like rereading this)


End file.
